Search and Destroy by JT Sawyer (top non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📗

as an instructor at the Farm, but I’m not sure how long she’ll last stayin’ in one place for so long, and by that I mean more than a few months. Like Shepard, she’s used to living out of a rucksack and eatin’ MREs on the run in some desert on the other side of the planet. She’s looking into work with some of the private military contracting firms, so I’m not sure she’ll be back in SD.”

Foley sat down across from his friend. “And Shepard…what’s the latest?”

“You tell me. That’s why I thought you were here…that maybe you’d discovered something.”

Foley shook his head. “He’s alone, cut off…probably nearby though. I would be, trying to figure out who set me up and killed everyone I cared about. He won’t risk traveling abroad, not yet anyway, since he’s on too many watchlists. But staying in the AO here wouldn’t be expected by the authorities.”

“That was my thought too.” Patterson spun a pen on the desk, watching it like he was observing the needle on a compass. “Is this the only reason you came here today? You’ve been back stateside for a longer than normal amount of time even before recent events with Shepard. What are you up to?”

Foley gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Oh, I’ve got something new in the works.”

Patterson sighed. “God help us all.”

36

Before getting a room across town in another hostel, Cal parked the stolen Accord from the cartel safehouse eight blocks away near a bunch of other beaten-up vehicles belonging to the college kids who lived near campus. Since the Accord was probably stolen several times over by the time the Colombians snatched it, he wasn’t worried about it drawing attention to him.

After eating the two pre-made deli sandwiches he’d purchased at a gas station, he sat down at the rickety table in his tiny room and pulled out the items from his backpack, doing an inventory.

He had quickly changed out of his suit earlier before arriving at the hostel because of the bloodstains on the sleeves from the safehouse battle. Cal washed off the crimson remnants then hung the one-piece suit, shirt and tie in the closet to dry.

He pulled out a tattered map he’d picked up in the lobby of the hostel and pored over the layout of southern Bethesda, scanning for any natural areas or parks adjacent to the rivers that wound through the city.

He identified two sizeable ones then studied the approach routes.

Those should do. Now, if I can just find the plant I’m looking for.

When he was done, he folded up the map and shoved it in the pack along with his binoculars, lockpicking set, food, water, power bars and his other outfits.

He lay back on the mattress, barely noticing the lumpy surface as he fell into a deep sleep for the first time in a week from sheer exhaustion and stress.

37

Concealed by the oak thicket in the nature preserve, Cal surveilled Landis’ estate in the distance for the last time. When he was done observing the locations of the three Colombian bodyguards, he prepared his gear, removing the small drone from his back and running through the mental checklist of his priorities.

On normal missions, he always had Vogel’s voice in his earpiece, feeding him directions and updates on troop movements, or he was flanked by his teammates, whose vigilance expanded his sensory capabilities, not to mention providing strength through firepower.

Now he was alone.

He missed his old compadres in the SD unit, who were now probably knee-deep in some covert operation in Africa. Guys like Waxer, Kestrel, Hatchet and the lone female operative on their team, Viper, had been his immediate family for nine months out of each year when they were deployed.

Viper and Shepard had since been temporarily replaced after both of them suffered wounds in a snatch-and-grab mission in Algeria last winter, but he would still get texts or calls from his fellow operators during his contract with Burke, and it only made him itch to get back into the fight.

But tonight, there was a different fight, and there would be no survivors among the men who were safeguarding the house across the street.

And for Ian Landis, there would be no mercy.

38

The next morning, Detective Nick Sanchez walked along the manicured grounds of Ian Landis’ hillside home, stopping by the swimming pool to examine the other victim one more time before wrapping up his initial investigation.

“Looks like a 9 mil,” said Denny Jackson, a stout detective, squatting down then pointing to the other dead body near the back porch. “Probably dropped the guy up there first since it’s only one shot to the head, then put two in this fella immediately after.”

“Neither of ’em had removed their weapons, so the shooter was watching and waiting for a while before making his move.”

“Or her move,” said the portly man. “These Colombians have women in their ranks too, you know.”

“What I know is that you watch too many movies, which would explain your waistline.”

“Pff…I spoke with the rest of our gang taskforce guys after I got here. They said the Colombian cartels are moving up into these parts more and more and there’s been a bunch of small-scale wars between the rival cartels going on. They get wind of some rich prick like the guy who owned this joint who’s into fancy designer drugs and get linked up with the rest of his wealthy pals, then another faction tries to muscle in.”

“The dead guy upstairs…” He paused to glance at his notepad. “An Ian Landis…he was an oil lobbyist in DC, it appears. Those folks run in their own circles and usually have a supplier who’s several people removed from them so there’s no blowback.”

The big man struggled to stand up. “My take is that this guy and the other two must have been offering protection to Landis—or they were here to collect on some hefty overdue fees, given all that coke in his bedroom upstairs.”

Sanchez glanced around the